


Can't Explain

by zillah1199



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah1199/pseuds/zillah1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt on the k!meme http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13010.html?thread=56996050#t56996050:<br/>Anders and Fenris decide to tell everyone that they're together. BUT NO ONE BELIEVES THEM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Explain

Got a feeling inside (Can't explain)  
It's a certain kind (Can't explain)  
I feel hot and cold (Can't explain)  
Yeah, down in my soul, yeah (Can't explain)  
I said (Can't explain)  
I'm feeling good now, yeah, but (Can't explain)  
(Pete Townsend)

“Did I hear correctly? You are an... abomination?”

“Why don't you shout? I don't think everyone heard you.” Anders looked nervously past the door of his clinic, then glared at Fenris. Most elves were easy to read. Just watch the ears. Merrill's were all over the place, as twitchy and erratic as she was. Velanna's ears were always flattened to the sides of her head like an angry cat. Fenris, though... Of course a former slave would have learned to suppress any tells. Facial expressions, body language, even the slightest flicker of an eartip that might betray their inner thoughts. But just now, Anders thought he'd caught just the tiniest movement, a bare hint of blushing colour. He smirked. “You bloody pervert,...”Anything else he might have said was lost in a mouthful of elf tongue.

That's how it started. Far be it for Anders to criticize anyone for their kinks. Maker knew he had enough of his own. He certainly wasn't complaining about the amount of desperately hot sex he was suddenly pulling. Even Justice was happy. Apparently taking a lyrium glowstick up the ass on a regular basis did wonders for soothing cranky Fade-spirits.

Nothing changed in public, of course. They still snapped and snarled at each other. But no matter how angry they got, no how many insults were hurled or barbs traded, every few days they were tearing each other's clothes off in the back of Anders' clinic. Or Fenris' mansion. Behind the Hanged Man. Up against that ridiculous statue of Hawke on the docks (a popular spot, given the many questionable stains that marred its massive stone base). The numerous dark alleys that made up Lowtown. Anywhere, really. In spite of their attitudes towards each other, the sex was equal parts addictive and incredible. Or maybe because of their attitudes. Particularly nasty argument, sharp enough to wound feelings and foster resentment inevitably resulted in the most phenomenal makeup sex. Although the makeup part was more implied than stated. 

It seemed to work, too. Years of bare tolerance punctuated by frequent bouts of passionate, clandestine sex. But somewhere along the line, and neither of them were exactly sure when, things changed. 

Feelings came into it. They started spending time together. Talking. Enjoying each other's company. Waking up together instead of going their separate ways after sex. Things that people in relationships were supposed to do. Except they never actually defined whatever it was between them. It just evolved on it's own, carrying them along with it. Anders was starting to wonder, just what, exactly, this strange thing was. And where it was going. So, one day, he asked.

“Fenris, are you ashamed of me?” While enjoying a bottle of wine at the mansion, after polishing off a particularly splendid dinner.

The elf in question stared at him like he'd lost his mind. “Why would you think such a thing?”

Anders started figeting. “It's just  _this_ ,” he gestured between them “has been going on all this time, but it's still a secret. We hide it and don't tell anyone.”

Fenris blinked at him. “I have been hiding nothing. I simply do not see any reason to advertise our private lives to the entire city.”

“But why haven't you told anyone?”

“Why have _you_  not said anything? I think we are both in the habit of keeping things that...matter...to ourselves.”

Anders understood that. Admitting something, or someone, had value to you. It had always been dangerous for people like them. Made it too easy to punish you by taking it away.

“We're free now. We shouldn't have to hide things out of fear. We should be able to be who we are, not hide what we have.”

Fenris shrugged. “If you wish. I assumed that everyone knew.”

“If Isabela knew, we'd never have heard the end of it.”

“And there you have the perfect argument for  _not_  declaring our involvement. But if you wish to make some sort of announcement, I will not stop you. I fail to see how it matters one way or another. I am content with what has developed between us. I would see it continue, regardless of our companions awareness.”

Anders smiled and rested his head on his lover's shoulder. 

***

It turns out, however, that one doesn't just simply up and announce that you're romantically involved with your worst enemy. Who isn't actually your worst enemy, after all. He's your lover. Someone you care about. Someone you've been with for years. It just doesn't trip off the tongue. You can't really insert it into daily conversation. “Oh, hey, how's it going? Meeting up at the Hanged Man later? I'll be there. Oh and by the way, Fenris and I have been fucking for years now. We're thinking of moving in together. It's a thing. How've you been?” How did normal people do this sort of thing anyway? Anders was at a loss. 

Then Danarius showed up. They wiped the floor with him. Followed by that bit with Fenris' bitch of a sister. Hawke was trying to comfort the elf, calling after him as he stormed out of the tavern. “You have friends, Fenris.” It seemed like the perfect opportunity.

“Not me!” Anders piped up. “I'm his...” CRACK! “Ow! Hawke!” Anders' lip was split and blood trickled out of his throbbing nose.

“How could you even say such a thing!”

“But Hawke...”

“After everything he's just been through, you just can't let it go, can you?”

“But Hawke...”

“Don't you 'but Hawke' me. I can't believe you'd be so horrible. You go after him right this minute, and apologize.” Hawke barely came up to his collarbone, but she was right up in his face, stabbing in the chest with her finger.

“Ow! I only meant...”

“NOW, Anders.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Holding a frost-coated palm to his throbbing face, Anders slunk out the door.

He caught up to Fenris by the stairs to the docks.

“Anders? I had not realised you were injured.”

“Hawke hit me.”

“Hawke?”

“Yes.”

“Hit you?” An eyebrow went skyward.

“Yes.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She thought I was being mean to you. She sent me to apologize. I'm sorry, Fenris.”

“She thought...” The other eyebrow followed. He tried to cover a slight smirk with his gauntlets. “You should heal that.”

“Is she following me?”

A full-on smirk. “She is not. You're quite safe.”

“It's not funny, it bloody well hurt.”

Fenris nodded. “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”

“She's terrifying.” Alice Hawke was a tiny, adorable bundle of dimples, curves and ferocious temper. She'd just annihilated a Tevinter magister. She turned the Arishok into a puddle of smoking goo and came out of it with only a few bruises and a broken wrist. She was everybody's best friend, but Maker help you if you made her mad. Anders reset his nose and sent a wave of healing through his face. He pouted a bit as he wiped the blood away.

Fenris patted his cheek indulgently. “My poor, delicate mageflower. Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?”

It was Anders' turn to smirk. “We're not too far from the statue.”

“Indeed.” 

***

Elves don't wear shoes. Well, some elves did. A lot of the elves in the alienage wore shoes. The elves in the Circle had all worn shoes. For some reason, the elves in Anders' personal social circle tended not to wear shoes. Fenris, in particular. Not something Anders usually put much thought into, except when something brought it to his attention. An injury. Or how quietly Fenris always walked, padding softly like the wolf of his name.

Or when Fenris started snaking his foot up the length of Anders' leg, kneading and massaging all the way up to the bulge of his crotch. Under the table. In the middle of Wicked Grace night.

“Your bet, Blondie.” 

“What was the bet?” Voice a bit squeaky. Varric looking at him. They're all looking at him. Even the dog is staring; he can feel his face heating up, and all he can think about is those freakishly dexterous toes that are unlacing his breeches and they're all waiting and Maker, he's going to come in his pants if Fenris doesn't stop. 

“Ten silvers.”

It's not like Anders isn't bad enough at cards already. How is he supposed to concentrate when that slender appendage has coaxed him into full hardness, grinding the sole against his throbbing length. Tracing toes along the head and under his foreskin. And he has a good hand. At least he thinks it's a good hand. Wait, are they playing Wicked Grace or Diamondback? Shit. He glared across the table at Fenris.

“I, ahhh, I raise.” He shoves a handful of silver to the center of the table, squirming in his chair as that wicked, wicked foot just keeps stroking. He knows his face is flaming red. He has a good hand, right?

The bets go round the table again and Fenris meets his eyes, smirking, working his length under the table and now his hands are shaking and he has no idea what cards are in his hand and, oh. Oh, Maker.

“I...ah,nggh....OH! I..ah..I fold.” Nothing to do now but bury his face in his hands and hope he can hide the stain on his clothes. Certain everyone is staring. The insufferable smirk on that damned elf's face.

“I call.” Said the damned elf. Anders ventures a peek as everyone shows their cards. 

Shit. He'd have won. 

***

There's something about sex in an alley. Something impulsive and dirty. Never mind that they're both getting too old for this kind of absurd exhibitionism. Anders loved the feel of brick against his back, the rush of cold air across heated skin. The prickle of Fenris' gauntlets against his bare shoulder. The elf is careful, oh so careful, lest they cut too deeply, but Anders craves the intensity of metal digging into his flesh, just enough to scratch but not enough to tear. His shirt rucked up and the sound of his lover growling against his skin, mouthing at his chest and throat.

They might finish here in the dark recesses just past Hightown, shoving trousers and leggings down and rutting into each other like stray dogs. They might jog the rest of the way to the mansion, littering the floor with clothes once they got there, so desperate for each other that they wouldn't even make it up to the bedroom. (But not too close to the corpses. They'd made that mistake once. Major mood-killer.)

Oh fuck, it was good. The heat, and the pressure and GAH!! “AVELINE!!”

“Fenris, you let him go this instant!” The guardswoman yanks the elf off of him and shakes him roughly by the collar. 

“No, wait..” 

“I don't want to hear it.”

“Aveline, he...” Anders gapes at her, all too aware of his dishevelment, his hair wild and undone, the bruises on his throat and the trickle of blood at his collar.

“Enough!” She shakes Fenris again, glowering at them both. “I don't care which one of you started it. We are all sick and tired of you fighting.”

“But we...” 

“Shut it, you.” She lets the elf go. “Do either of you ever think about anyone but yourselves? How your behaviour affects the rest of us? Affects Hawke? I don't want to see this again, do you hear? I'll throw you both in the brig if I do.” She storms off while the two of them gawk stupidly after her.

“So. Back to your place, then?” Anders straightens his pauldrons.

“Probably safer there, yes.” 

***  
Anders hates the Wounded Coast. He hates Sundermount. But the Vimmark, mountains, though. He likes the Vimmark Mountains. For one thing, they aren't particularly haunted. Low on giant spiders as well. Some bandits and angry wildlife. A few Tal-Vashoth. Nothing like they usually encountered, though. The crazy dwarf issue is a problem, but Anders suspects that's a recent thing, given the sudden upswing in attempts on Hawke's life. He didn't know why they bothered. Attacking Hawke never ended well. At least, not for the attackers. A quick tour of the bones of the unlucky (and idiotic) souls that had tried to attack Hawke and were now festooned all over the coast around Kirkwall and Sundermount should have put a stop to that nonsense, but no. Some people just never learned. All the more reason to hate places like that.

The Vimmarks, now. These are nice mountains. They have trees. And rocks. Big rocks. Perfect rocks for pulling your lover behind and having a quick snog to break the monotony of tromping into untold danger. Anders is totally sold on the Vimmarks. They should come here more often.

Camping is good too. Plenty of cover to stake their tent behind. More trees and rocks. Anders is enjoying this trip. Right now, for example. The weather is fine, the smell of food roasting over their fire is wonderful. They hadn't had to kill anyone today. Good times.

“Oh, Anders?”

“Yes Merrill?”

“Did you find a good place to set your tent? Not too much underbrush? Did you check it carefully?”

“Yes?”

“Only I wouldn't want you to get bitten by a snake again, you see, so you should check very carefully.”

“A snake?” He gives her a quizzical look across the fire.

“Yes, I saw you earlier. It was so sweet of Fenris to suck the poison out. He really can be very considerate. When he's not being grumpy, that is.”

The whole group is staring at them, as puzzled as Anders.

“When...?”

“Oh! Earlier today, when you fell behind, you know. It must have been terribly awkward. How did you get bitten there, but the way? Did you not check the area before you, umm, you know..took a wee?” She blushed adorably. “That happened to Tamlen once. He was wee, then. I mean small. A child. A little boy. He was taking a wee and didn't notice a snake in the brushes, and got bitten. On his leg, though, not his, ummm...”

Anders blinks a few times. 

“There was no snake, Merrill.”

“Oh, you don't need to be embarrassed. A lot of people who live in the cities have no idea about snakes and bugs and all sorts of other dangerous things in the woods. Well, they're not dangerous. I mean they are, but not on purpose, they're just defending themselves, and...”

“It wasn't a snake...”

“But I saw...”

“Merrill! There was no snake. Fenris was sucking me off, okay. No snake!”

Everyone stares at him a moment, aghast. Well, everyone but Fenris who's trying very hard not to chuckle.

Suddenly the whole clearing rings with laughter.

“Good one, Blondie.” Varric wipes his eyes. “Like we'd believe something that crazy.”

Hawke beams at him. “It's so nice to see you making jokes again. You've been so gloomy lately.”

Anders glares at Fenris' shaking shoulders. “It's not a joke. We're a couple!”

“Pssht, Blondie, even I couldn't sell that story. Seriously. Is this about Isabela? She's never going to stop guessing the colour of Broody's underwear, so you can just give it up now. Nice of you to try, though.”

Anders grumbles under his breath. “He doesn't wear any.” 

Maybe the Vimmarks aren't so great after all.

***  
Carver hates the Vimmarks. Or more correctly, he hates travelling through the Vimmarks towards some crazy murderous dwarves after “the Blood of the Hawke”. Not the HawkeS, oh no, just the Hawke. As in, his sister. _The_ Hawke. Then one everyone meant when they said 'Hawke'. As if he weren't a Hawke, too. Because that was just the way his life worked.

If taking time off from the Wardens to tromp through some Maker-forsaken mountains wasn't bad enough, there was Anders and Fenris. There had always been Anders and Fenris, arguing, snarling, debating (loudly and interminably) the whole 'mage issue'. Whatever that was. Just an excuse to ooze hatred at each other. 

Except that had changed, somehow, and, Maker, he really didn't want to know how. But they were still loud. Really loud. And interminable. I mean, did they ever stop? If Carver had to lay awake  _again_  tonight listening to them moan and howl and whatever other unspeakable things they were doing to each other in that little tent, well, he's just going to shuck this whole thing and go off on his Calling now, because it has to be better than this. If he'd had any idea, he'd never have agreed to meet up with his sister here. But then, if he'd had any idea, he have asked the Maker to let him be born to a different family, and that would have solved all his problems.

But the Maker was not listening. After the second night of absolutely no sleep, even with his head jammed under his poor excuse for a pillow and his second  _and third_  set of (clean) smalls stuffed up against his ears. Exhausted, he dragged himself wearily over to the campfire.

“Hey, Junior! Not looking too spry this morning. Fresh air should be doing you some good.”

“How can you sleep with all that noise?”

“What noise? I wear earplugs when I sleep. Bianca snores.” A surreptitious glance back to his tent. “You didn't hear me say that, though. She's a lady.”

“Carver,” Alice was frowning at him. As usual. “Be nice. Anders has nightmares, you should know that.”

“I have nightmares, sister. Those are not nightmares.” Because the moaning had started up again. Of course. 

”Carver! He's been a Warden longer than you, his nightmares are going to be worse. And plus there's, you know, Justice.” That last bit said in a whisper. Like the spirit might be eavesdropping or something.

Desperate noises that sounded remarkably like 'oh please' and 'more' were coming from the tent. Carver shut his mouth before he caught flies with it. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Don't be so mean, Carver. He can't help it.”

A snort. “I'll bet he can't. Are you seriously telling me you don't realise that those two are having sex in that tent right now?”

Alice was laughing at him. Varric was laughing at him. Even the dog was laughing at him. At least he thought the dog was laughing at him. Maybe it was laughing at them. Hard to say.

“Carver, really. Those two? Now that I'd love to see.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, not really, but you know what I mean. We've only just gotten them to stop trying to tear each other's throats out.”

“They've been groping each other behind every tree and rock we've passed!”

“Junior, if you're going to sell a story, you have to make it believable. Trust me, I'm a keen observer of behaviour. Not to blow my own horn, if you'll pardon the allusion, but if those two were going at it, I'd be the first to notice.”

Carver's waiting for the joke to be over, and the 'gotcha!” to hit. But no, they're absolutely serious. Because his life is just like this. “I'm starting to wonder if you've all been idiots all along, and I just didn't notice until now. I'm going down to the stream to wash off.”

“Well that was rude.” Alice huffs as she starts the pan warming for breakfast. She frowns for a moment. “You don't suppose...”

Varric just laughs, waving a hand at her. “C'mon, seriously? This is Blondie and Broody we're talking about. Besides, your brother's a bit of a tit, you know?”

Alice brightens. “Yeah, he always has been.”

fin

**Author's Note:**

> TItle from the Who song of the same name. The inspiration for Alice Hawke was one playthrough I had where my character was just a total badass for the Arishok fight. Usually I end up doing the standard running and screaming while Dog does most of the work. That playthrough I managed to waste him while taking hardly any damage. Poor Dog felt left out.


End file.
